


Bertie McGumpher and a Case of the Jollies

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-08
Updated: 2005-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sirius Black discovers the delighths of picture postcards, a day trip to the seaside comes about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bertie McGumpher and a Case of the Jollies

Bertie McGumpher was a terribly nice man – took his tea with two sugars, was fond of dogs and gerbils, and had never missed a day of work in his life. Punctuality was something of Bertie's specialty (as was making the perfect piccalilli sandwich), but accuracy and long-term concentration were not his forte.

Bertie was, in short, the most reliable yet useless postman in all of London.

The flats at the end of Haversham Road were the final stop on Bertie's route. Letters rarely made it into mail-slots in that neck of the woods – post would show up in flowerboxes or stuffed under doormats. It was a good day when your neighbour received your post and could bring it over. (Or not, if your letters ended up with Mr Davenport in 1B. Bills that entered the confines of his flat only left it as geisha costumes for lollipop-stick dolls. Sirius had bought one such figure, placed it on the living-room mantelpiece, and called it Barbara Noodle).

"Two bills, three circulars, a gardening catalogue for 2A, and a postcard for old Mrs Smith," said Remus one Saturday morning, throwing the post on the kitchen table. "I'll take stuff around, later."

"We could keep the gardening catalogue," suggested Sirius, rifling through the pile. He swallowed a gargantuan mouthful of toast and jam. "I bet they sell slug pellets wholesale."

Remus arched a brow. "We are not brewing Tantalizing Tickle-Tea again. I don't care what it's supposed to cure."

"Pfft." Sirius waved a hand, grimacing at the pizza offers. "Just because your libido doesn't need a boost. Think of poor Peter and his . . . ooooh what's this then?"

____spacer____

  
Sirius waved Mrs Smith's postcard, the front of which bore an illustration of a man so overjoyed to be in Skegness that he felt the need to skip down the beach. "He's jolly. Look at him – beaming at all and sundry. We should get some of that."

"Some of what?"

"Jolliness. We deserve jollies, Moony."

"I rather thought we exchanged a set yesterday evening," said Remus, with a smile. "Did you lose yours so soon?"

"I did," nodded Sirius. "Likely they slipped under the bed, and I'm not going in to get them. There's a herd of Quintapeds nesting in your cast-off socks, I'm sure of it."

"A renegade band," said Remus, "who've mated with your boxer shorts and given birth to a violent species of underwear." He sipped his tea cheerfully. "So sad for your jollies – snack food for unmentionables."

"It's a tragedy," said Sirius, around another inelegant mouthful of toast. "And hence –"

"Hence?"

"- _hence_ we must go forth to Skegness, where the jollies are kept."

"I've met people from Skegness," said Remus, eyeing the milk and pondering a bowl of Snozzleflakes. "Their jollies were not noticeably evident.

"Perhaps they merely _said_ they were from Skegness, and in fact hailed from Blackpool." Sirius brushed toast crumbs from his t-shirt and studied the dregs of his tea.

Remus nodded. "It's entirely possible. People from Scarborough do that all the time. Shifty bunch."

"So that's settled," said Sirius, moving to place his plate and mug in the sink. He tightened the lid on the Pumpkinberry jam, and stashed it in the cupboard next to the wizarding Marmite. (Being a jealous sort of spread, the Marmite tried to bite his finger and told him he was a whore). "I'll pack my . . ." He frowned and looked at Remus. "What should I take for a day-trip to Skeggy?"

"A cast-iron stomach, two vials of Pepper-Up, and the ability to sing George Formby without seeming insincere?" suggested Remus, putting his own mug in the sink. "Alternately some Muggle money and a wand." He leaned forward and kissed Sirius gently. "You daft, lovely bastard."

Sirius grinned, and kissed Remus for so long that the Marmite suggested they get a room.

~*~

The swiftest Wizarding route to Skegness (on a Saturday morning, without having planned ahead) was to Floo through Lincoln. Bad articulation saw Sirius dally in Bognor Regis for a while, waiting for his turn to hop on the main Floo line and head back the way he'd come. Being the adaptable sort, he took the opportunity to eat a packet of crisps and considered the detour "a sightseeing miracle, Moony." Remus, who was unsurprised to have made it to Skegness long before Sirius, loitered outside Ye Curious Rose and Crown with a pint and thanked his lucky stars that wizarding pubs didn't hold with regular British licensing hours. A man living with Sirius Black was often in need of lager long before 11am.

"First things first," said Sirius, leaning over the railings at the sea-front and pulling Mrs Smith's postcard from his back pocket. "To begin this day as the universe intended, I must undertake the Jolly Skip."

"You stole Mrs Smith's postcard?"

"My need was greater."

"Your need was _dafter_."

Sirius tutted. "Moony. Enough of this stalling. Just because you lack the graceful coordination needed to undertake the Skip of Jolly, don't mock my commitment to such an ancient dance."

Remus stared at him blankly. "You're actually going to do this."

"Of course." Sirius eyed him as if he were a man gone round the twist.

"Aren't you supposed to be an _aristocrat_ , or some such shit?"

"Recovering," said Sirius. "Just think if my mother had undertaken the Jolly Skip. A little sand between her toes and a moderate flailing of limbs – she might have been a whole new woman."

"I rather like you as a slightly second-hand _man_ ," offered Remus, but followed Sirius down the steps to the beach all the same.

After removing his shoes and socks, it took Sirius fifteen minutes of study until he was certain he could properly replicate the illustration on the postcard. By then Remus was up to his ankles in water, squishing sand between his toes and trying to skim pebbles over the retreating surf.

"Sure you don't want to join me?" asked Sirius, balancing on one foot.

"Tempting," said Remus, stooping to pick up more pebbles. "And yet I resist."

"Stick in the mud."

"Stick in the _sand_ , Padfoot."

"Pedantic bastard."

"Well, you have me there."

The vision of Sirius bounding away was the most bizarrely mesmerizing thing Remus had seen since James turned his own nipples into psychedelic leeches during sixth-year Transfiguration. Remus glanced warily up and down the beach, but it was still too early for most holidaymakers to have braved the front. The only creature watching Sirius with any interest at all was a seagull, who tilted its head, gave a squawk, and flew away. "Quite," Remus replied, and set about collecting shells to give to Lily.

~*~

Lunch consisted of wonderfully greasy chips, wrapped in newspaper and eaten with eager fingers. Remus had hoped for seafood, but Sirius' horror at the idea of eating anything called cockles and winkles was so severe that no explanation – "They're _shellfish_ , Sirius. It has nothing to do with any creature losing its vital parts," – could penetrate his brain. After chips they sought out ice cream, and poked around the seafront shops, recklessly gambling their pennies on the one-armed bandits, and spending twenty-three minutes picking out rock. There were straw hats to try on, and household items made of shells to scorn, and 'History of Skegness' books for Sirius to peruse while Remus tried to select a gift for Barbara Noodle (settling on a snow globe with a tiny deckchair inside).

Sirius bought two plastic buckets and two plastic spades, and the early afternoon was dedicated to crafting a replica of Hogwarts from sand. Remus contracted a severe attack of the can't-stop-laughings when a seagull pooped on Sirius' head, but Sirius tilted his chin in a gesture of unimpeachable dignity and carried on crafting the details of greenhouse number four.

It was Remus who noticed the weathered old beach-hut where holidaymakers had once rented deckchairs, and whispered a suggestion in Sirius' ear. One covert casting of a well-aimed glamour later, and Padfoot came bounding around the far side of the hut, throwing himself to a messy halt at Remus' feet. Remus laughed delightedly at the doggy grin on Padfoot's face, and scrambled to his feet to find driftwood to throw.

Padfoot had never played in the sea before, and became hypnotized by surf roughly thirty-seconds after catching sight of it. He snapped at the waves, chased foam up the beach to where Remus stood ankle-deep in water, woofed delightedly, and raced back into the waves once more. Seaweed perplexed him (particularly the kind he got stuck to his nose) but sand was more thrilling than tail wags and breathless yips could express. Remus wrote 'Remus was here' on the beach with a stick, and Padfoot grinned at him, front paws sunk six inches deep in a brand new hole, tongue lolling with doggy bliss as Remus grinned.

"I could swear," said Remus after Sirius had transformed again, "that it used to be possible to ride a donkey at the beach."

Sirius arched one eyebrow and eyed Remus thoughtfully. "Moony, my old friend. If it's an ass you crave . . ."

" _Padfoot_." Remus threw a vaguely purple shell at his head. "You're bloody incorrigble."

There were too many people around for Sirius to kiss the fluster from Remus' face, so he picked up a stick and drew a heart in the sand instead. "S loves R' he wrote, and wiggled an eyebrow.

"That's as maybe," said Remus, hiding a smile and flushing the barest shade of pink. "But he can love him once they're home and there's less chance of someone getting sand in their bits."

Sirius shot to his feet and pulled Remus after him. "London, then?" he said with a grin.

~*~*~*~*~

By the time they tumbled from the fireplace in their living room, Sirius was fairly sure he had sand in his bits regardless. Remus packed him off to the shower, and spent a few moments introducing Barbara Noodle to her new friend, the snow globe. Taking their souvenirs (those bought and those found) to the kitchen, Remus put on the kettle and took off his shoes and socks. A significant amount of Skegness beach pattered onto the lino of their kitchen floor. "Tragic," he mumbled, chewing his lip, and pulled off his t-shirt to scattered more sand at his feet. "Buggered, then," he murmured, getting rid of the sand with a flick of his wand and heading to the bathroom to clean up whatever tragedies Sirius had inflicted on the tile.

Verse seventy-four of 'Wizards Do It With Their Wands' was in full swing as Remus pushed open the bathroom door, and Sirius broke off mid-line to peer through the shower curtains. "You're letting in a draft, Moony," he said, looking injured, then quirked an eyebrow at Remus's shirtless state. "And terribly grubby," he added. "Probably ought to wash the sand from behind your ears."

"Behind my ears, is it?" asked Remus, amused, but pulled off the rest of his clothes (adding liberally to the sand that already covered the floor). He climbed into the bathtub. "Perhaps you should see to that."

"Perhaps I should," said Sirius, pulling Remus close and kissing the saltwater sweetness from his lips.

For dinner Sirius made tuna sandwiches – "S'not cockles and winkles, Moony, but it's fishy and comes from the sea. Will it do?" – and Remus slid bare toes across Sirius' ankle to say yes it would, and to make Sirius smile. They ate pop rocks for dessert – "because too few things exploded today, Padfoot," – and drank enough tea to make them vibrate in their seats. They delivered misdirected mail to the others in the building, and Sirius handed over Mrs Smith's postcard with a wistful little sigh. It was the sort of sigh that was music to an elderly lady's ear, and before either man knew what they were doing, they were perched on Mrs Smith's sofa, drinking Darjeeling and hearing all about her niece.

After several hours of fruit-cake torture, Sirius flopped heavily on his own bed and moaned. "My belly go boom," he mumbled with a pitiful little sigh.

"Not feeling jolly?" asked Remus, sitting on the bed as he pulled off his clothes.

"No jolly feeling," mumbled Sirius. "My jollies were felt up in the shower. Now they retreat to dig out from beneath jam tarts. Jam tarts and fruit cake and fourteen cream scones."

"Well," said Remus cheerfully, "at least if they're besieged, you can't drop them on the floor among the predators. And if you hadn't felt the need to _explain_ why the postcard was damp . . ."

Sirius groaned again, just a little louder. "Don't chastise," he mumbled. "It's a waste of your breath. I can't hear you for the cake that's coming out of my _ears_."

With a gentle little smile, Remus crawled across the bed, slipped a hand beneath Sirius' shirt and gently rubbed his belly. "Better?" he asked.

"Much," said Sirius, sighing in contentment. "Could you do that all night?"

"Probably not," said Remus, kissing his jaw. "My arm would get tired."

Sirius smiled and blinked at him, lazily. "'Til I fall asleep?"

"Maybe 'til then." Remus kissed him: affection like the tide. Lips, tongue and mingled breath - the nudge-sweep of sandcastle dreams. "Pyjamas?"

Sirius groaned and sat up, pulling off his t-shirt and wriggling out of his jeans. He fell back against the sheets, and made noises of protest until Remus rubbed his belly again. "No," he said, stretching. "This. This will do."

"I'm sure it will," said Remus, curling up beside him. "You barmy, bloody nut."

Sirius smiled faintly. "I like my jollies when they're with your jollies," he murmured, covering Remus' hand with his own. And, with a sunburn on the tip of his nose and sand still beneath his armpits, he fell asleep and dreamed of driftwood, and a man who rubbed his belly out of love.


End file.
